The Broken Peace Negotiation Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Far apart—
sharp stares, praying hearts.
One speaks from pride,
one from old wounds.

They talk of peace—
while gripping ego's knife.
The empty space widens—
a dry field of red marks
where hopes collapse.

Power counts its ships.
The preacher mourns the streets.
Between them: a dark sea,
millions trapped, unsleeping.
Wisdom says:
no blood is "mine."

Let pride unclench its iron fist
into a palm that does not twist.
Let holy anger remember—
children need bread first.

Peace?
Mend the sagging roof.
No house will stand
unless both hold it firm.

What is won
beneath flags raised over graves?
The true victory:
quiet borders,
steady markets,
days untouched by death.

So write—on trembling paper—
no boasts, no claim.
Let the ink settle.
That fragile hush before storms—
the truest name of peace.

MyKoul